In the presence of senseless killings and world turning events, i remark to one question, "who's going to take care of the garden?"
Daily toil is honored by scratching dogs of mischief! in a 10 x 7.5 patch of earth, bordered by concrete and a wooden fence.
A garden! play field or should i say office of my aged grandfather.
The green thumb, would rise to his call at 6am, marching straight to his glory, only to be welcomed by holes from soiled dog paws! (the ritual begins) "Who been in my plants, who de rass been in my plants...? Is you?" pointing to one of the 5 shivering K-9's, "Oh!, nobody ain't know!?, voice aloud to the entire neighbourhood, "alright! we gon see is who!" He marched towards the broom leaded to the side of the step, by now all dogs are on their guard, for they all know what's to come...need i say more!
I'd watch from afar, when i'm awake at those God forsaken hours! the care & tenderness each plant is given! the time & precision, positioning & finesse...all contributors to the perfect growth of the patient.
"Who would take care of this garden!?" i often ask, "when this man is gone, who would have the time to take care of them!" His jewels, his children, the very plants that almost took his life...he continues to give of his time, blood, sweat, tears and not forgetting scoldings.
With each clip of the shears, with each turn of the soil, it's almost as though he's one with the plants...he'd praise them in sunlight, he'd curse them if withering, but he was doin' all this in love!
Off from the plants, into his newspaper, for hours this man would read and read and read...then the converstions beings...
Like an oracle, he'd recollect what he said would happen, "Man, it's almost as though these people know what i asking...is de same thing i said would happen!" his remarks everytime...
His words would never fall to the ground with out being fulfilled! NEVER! in his terms...but what can i say...the man has his right to his own opinion!
When done with babblings and cursing of the writers and editor of media, he'd revert to his haven...yes the garden, his treasured garden!!...
To the world where he is king, and his subjects won't ask him anything!...he'd pronouce life where life i seen, and death were needed.
"Who would take care of this garden!?"
Age tells the tale of moons past, suns countdown to the final "alas"
Where would the wisdom spring in his left generation?, when gone to peace and tranqulity? the question that haunts my mind!...
But his ghost would serve as a constant reminder, that no one took the time to heed his call, no one took the time to observe his tradition..."Who would take care of the garden?"
A question not only for me, but for you as well...think about it!
"Who...oh who would take care of the garden?"
1 comment:
I don't think I would be the one to take care of his garden - although your narrative has be feeling compelled to do so. I guess what was his is now someone else's as they cycle goes on, so I guess we all have to take care of each of our gardens!
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